


You’re my peace, I’m your war

by stillahavsvinden



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Canon, Reunions, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 23:42:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11839491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillahavsvinden/pseuds/stillahavsvinden
Summary: Tommy and Alex meet for the first time after the war.(This is sort of a sequel to Things we lost, things we won, but works as a stand-alone as well)





	You’re my peace, I’m your war

Tommy is incredulous when he boards the train in London on a fine late summer day. The last letter he received from Alex finally delivered Tommy an invitation to come and visit him.

 

It wasn’t the first time that they brought the subject up – they did so right after the war (or Tommy did, to be exact – he still hasn’t forgotten how his hand trembled as it travelled across the piece of paper) – but their first attempts were thwarted. First Alex fell ill, and then the weather changed, bringing with it two harsh winters. Tommy spent the summers between them hard at work, and Alex kept quiet. The subject was dropped, up until this summer.

 

Alex’s letter was dated 5 June 1947 – and Tommy immediately knew what the letter would be about. It wasn’t easy, getting a whole weekend off from work, but somehow Tommy managed it.

 

And now he is finally headed north.

 

The train ride isn’t short, by any means, and Tommy has too much time to think, as if he hasn’t done enough thinking in these past seven years. His stomach is a bag of nerves – he can’t stop thinking about everything that could go wrong. What if Alex won’t be there? What if they have nothing to talk about? What if Alex is a completely different person than he was? What if this is just some elaborate hoax that the universe has decided to play on him?

 

He wishes that the train would already arrive, that the moment would already come – whether good or bad, it beats not knowing and waiting. (What if he alights from the train just to find Alex standing there with a pretty girl on his arm and a kid clutching his trouser leg?)

 

He falls into uneasy sleep for an hour or two, but his meditations are only interrupted when the train draws up at the station.

 

The moment of truth.

 

The train whistles, the platform is shrouded in white smoke. His knees almost buckling, Tommy joins the queue filing out, steps onto the platform and looks around, heart twanging in his chest. First it’s impossible to see anything in the bustle of the platform – then, the crowd thins out, and when Tommy can’t seem to find anyone waiting for someone, he panics.

 

“You’re not as scrawny as you used to be.”

 

Tommy whips around.

 

“Almost didn’t recognise you.”

 

It’s Alex, a grin playing on his face. Older, but happier than Tommy has ever seen him.

 

A blissful, baffled laugh escapes Tommy.

 

Alex grabs him by the shoulders, pulls him close, into a tight, hearty hug.

 

Tommy’s senses are reeling – Alex is real. Very much the same built as Tommy remembers.

 

Alex’s face is glowing when he pulls away from the embrace. He pats Tommy on the back.

 

“Come, let’s go.”

 

They walk out through the ticket barrier, up a hill to the high street. Tommy lets Alex do all the talking, and talk he does – and Tommy loves to listen.

 

“I got your letter last month. Had to sit on it, ‘cause I didn’t know when I’d get the next day off. Didn’t even know if I’d get this day off. But then this one bloke had a burning metal splinter land on his foot, and they had to put the manufacturing on hold while the safety inspectors came. Wonderful things, trade unions. What d’you do these days?”

 

“Brickwork,” Tommy tells Alex, feeling an odd, misplaced sense of pride, but pride it is nonetheless.

 

“Good for you,” Alex says with an approving nod. “Best to keep busy.”

 

It really is.

 

“You must be hungry,” Alex says then. “Let’s go get some grub.”

 

They head to a pub that Alex speaks highly of, and turns out that the food really is good. His standards probably aren’t the highest, but he’s been too close to starvation to complain.

 

“I really miss eating meat. Don’t you?” Alex comments while chomping on his food.

 

Tommy mutters assent.

 

It’s still an hour or two until the Friday rush hour, and there’s some privacy yet in the pub.  They spend a long time recalling their adventures, some more exciting than the rest, while deftly avoiding recollections of the war – of Dunkirk – even though it’s the only thing they have in common. But it’s more pleasant this way. Tommy doesn’t even tell Alex that he went to this graveyard near his home on Bastille Day. Had there been a monument of some sort for people whose remains were elsewhere, Tommy would have left flowers, but there wasn’t.

 

As the pub starts to fill, Alex clears his throat and shifts in his seat.

 

“It’s getting lively. Wanna go over to my flat? I mean, I say mine, but I room with these two other blokes. Saves on the rent, y’know. At least we can afford central heating together.”

 

Tommy nods. “Same for me. Though there’s four of us.”

 

Alex lets out a chuckle. “Some living, isn’t it? Anyway, shall we?”

 

“Yeah,” Tommy says quickly, nursing the empty pint on front of him. “Let’s go.”

 

And Tommy is ashamed to admit it to himself – this is the part of their visit that he has been looking forward to the most. The existence of the two other blokes is a bit of a let-down, honestly, but Tommy was silly to not consider them, seeing as he has three roommates himself.

 

They slip out of the steadily filling pub. It’s a warm early evening. Seagulls are swirling overhead as they make their way up the high street. The sea isn’t far, Tommy muses.

 

After a short walk in the deepening red glow, they arrive in a neighbourhood that is dominated by rows of council flats. They might as well have arrived in Tommy’s neighbourhood, though there’s a lot more greenery in here than there is where Tommy lives. Alex lets them into one of the identical houses, and Tommy’s heart gives a leap as he steps over the threshold. There are shoes strewn around in the hall, smell of stale cigarette smoke clinging to the walls. The flat looks recently built, but being inhabited by three men has taken its toll.

 

“That you, Alex?” a voice calls from the depths of the flat. A young man is standing at the end of the hall.

 

Alex makes the introductions. “Alistair, this is Tommy. Tommy, Alistair.”

 

They shake hands. Soon they’re joined by Alex’s other roommate, Colin. Both Alistair and Colin seem closer to Tommy’s age than Alex’s, perhaps they’re even younger than Tommy – in their early twenties, definitely. Tommy finds the arrangement curious, but it’s none of his business, really.

 

He’s shy and curt in their presence, but he and Alex are soon left alone anyway.

 

“You crashing here, Tommy?” Alistair asks as he goes to the hall and puts on his shoes.

 

“Yeah,” Alex answers on behalf of Tommy. “We’ve got a sofa. You can sleep on that.”

 

“Won’t your flatmates mind?” Tommy says hesitantly.

 

“They’re working night-shift,” Alex says.

 

“Yeah,” Colin says. “Poor buggers that we are.”

 

Tommy pretends not to feel the heat rising to his cheeks. He wonders if Alex’s gaze lingers on him, or whether he’s just imagining it.

 

Alistair and Colin take their leave.

 

“Right. Have a good night,” Alex bids them.

 

“Yeah, you too.”

 

The front door closes, and the silence left behind is dense. Tommy’s face is still burning.

 

“So, erm…” Alex says and clears his throat, “Yeah. This is where I live.”

 

He gives Tommy a brief tour of the flat. There’s a living room and a small kitchen downstairs. The wooden kitchen table is littered with bread crumbs and has scratches zigzagging across the surface. Three plates have been piled in the sink; there’s a bread basket, next to it a pack of corn flakes. The larder cupboard has two tin containers – sugar and salt – and butter and soap. A basket of vegetables – one of Alex’s flatmates must have just gone out and bought them.

 

“Sorry about the… well, mess isn't the right word,” Alex says, scratching his neck. “It’s not much. A roof over my head.”

 

“My place looks exactly the same,” Tommy says compassionately, and Alex seems to relax a bit.

 

The tour continues. There’s a door standing ajar in the living room.

 

“That’s mine,” Alex says, gesturing at the door vaguely, “My room, I mean. Can you believe they gave me the smallest room in the flat? I’m the oldest one here, damn it.”

 

Tommy gives a quiet laugh, and sees Alex’s face brightening. The moment swells. Tommy looks away.

 

“Tommy…”

 

And there it is – that hand on his cheek, like they’re back in the June of 1940, back at the convalescent home, back home from Dunkirk.

 

Exactly the same.

 

Tommy’s eyes flutter shut; he can’t help it. God, how he’s missed this.

 

Missed Alex.

 

Against his better judgement.

 

Alex brings himself closer, their foreheads against one another. Tommy’s head is swimming. He can barely breath. Alex’s mouth is on his, and Tommy doesn’t know what to do with himself.

 

Perhaps Alex senses it, or perhaps he just pulls away for oxygen, but when he does his lips are ruddy and there’s a twinkle in his eyes; a twinkle Tommy has seen before – and it sends Tommy reeling once again. He feels more alive than he’s felt in years, and wonders if Alex feels the same.

 

Tommy has spent years trying to figure his feelings out; if he feels anything for Alex at all. There’s no more doubt – his chaotic mind is calm, once more, thanks to Alex.

 

He meets Alex’s gaze head-on; nods.

 

Tommy has barely got his bearings when Alex kisses him again, hand clutching his hair at the back of his head. He brings his body closer, gives Tommy a little nudge. Tommy takes a tentative step back, and Alex takes another towards him.

 

Their mouths part, and Alex backs Tommy into his room. There, his hands find their way to the buttons on Tommy’s shirt. A current passes between them – Alex’s fingers brush Tommy’s skin.

 

Tommy can’t believe this is happening.

 

“You’re letting me do all the work, huh?” Alex asks in the midst of it all. His lips are curved into a sly smile which tells Tommy that he’s only half-indignant.

 

Tommy’s fingers are numb when he obliges. Alex’s bare torso feels hot against his.

 

They collapse in a heap on Alex’s narrow bed; mouths and fingers exploring one another’s bodies in a way they couldn’t do last time. Didn’t have the courage to do last time.

 

There are bruises on Tommy’s skin that still haven’t faded – probably never will. Alex’s fingers pause at them; his forehead furrows; but he doesn’t ask, for which Tommy is thankful. Tommy doesn’t ask Alex about his bruises either.

 

And then, at last, Alex hooks his fingers under the waistband of Tommy’s underpants. His eyes never leave Tommy’s while he frees him. In turn, Tommy helps Alex out of his pants.

 

Alex rolls on top of him, a sweet, sweet weight, and tentatively rolls his hips against Tommy’s. An involuntary groan escapes Tommy. This is what he’s missed all these years; what he hasn’t gotten, and hasn’t even wanted to get unless it’s with Alex.

 

Outside on the street voices pass by, but Alex’s breath fans Tommy’s cheek, his muscles tense and relax in Tommy’s arms, the smell of his hair is in Tommy’s nose, and he finds it impossible to be afraid.

 

Afraid of what this is. What this makes him. What this will mean for him, for them.

 

It’s over as fast as it was the first time.

 

“Oh, God…” Alex breathes, his face furrowing, holding Tommy’s gaze until his eyes snap shut against his will, and he releases on Tommy’s belly. Tommy reaches his peak soon after, with Alex’s help. His mind is blissfully quiet.

 

* * *

 

The sun is close to the horizon now; Alex’s room is painted orange with its glow. They stay in bed, lying side-by-side and listening to each other’s breathing. Tommy’s mind takes him back: back to the sea – scent of salt and Alex’s damp hair – sun-bathed grass at the convalescent home afterwards…

 

He’s never forgotten. Repressed, perhaps, put it out of his mind, but never really forgotten.

 

As usual, Alex is the one doing the talking.

 

“So what happened to you? Did they send you back?” His look is curious and tone concerned.

 

“Yeah,” Tommy tells him. “Didn’t see much combat though, luckily.”

 

“Lucky indeed,” Alex replies. “I had to go back to France.”

 

Tommy doesn’t prompt him for more; he tells him some things, omits others.

 

When he’s finished, he lights a fag.

 

“You really shouldn’t do that,” Tommy remarks, watching the man.

 

“Do what?”

 

“Smoke in bed. A house burned down in my neighbourhood. They said this geezer had accidentally set his bed on fire.”

 

Alex gives a chuckle.

 

“Well, if I died now, I wouldn’t mind so much,” he replies, puffing out smoke.

 

He finishes his fag and then gets up to open the window, but promptly returns to Tommy’s side. The room is growing darker; still manageable without a light, though their frames are disappearing into the blueish tint.

 

“You got anyone?” Alex asks suddenly.

 

Tommy shakes his head; is afraid to ask the question back. He doesn’t want to – his stomach knots at the mere idea – but he has no choice:

 

“You?”

 

Alex lets out an exhalation. “You know me,” he replies, though Tommy doesn’t, of course he doesn’t, but that’s not important. Tommy’s bewilderment probably shows on his face, as Alex seems to feel the need to clarify:

 

“I was engaged to be married – to this girl.”

 

He draws in breath.

 

“Then I kind of…” Exhalation. “Mucked it up. Long story short. Can’t really forgive myself for it.”

 

He looks up at the ceiling. Tommy sees the wet glimmer in Alex’s eyes.

 

“We had our own place and everything,” he says, his voice thin. “Had to leave, of course. The boys offered to put me up.”

 

His torso is trembling against Tommy’s; stuttering breaths.

 

“It’s shit, really,” he concludes flatly. “But what can you?”

 

Somebody revs up a car outside; voices laughing and whooping go past the window.

 

“I’m sorry,” Tommy mumbles.

 

Alex sniffs.

* * *

 

The sun has set now, the room filled with darkness. Tommy wakes when Alex leaves his side and the bedsprings give an enormous creak.

 

Rubbing his eyes, he sits up too. “Shit. Fell asleep.”

 

“Yeah, me too,” Alex replies. He’s pulling on clothes, and Tommy figures he ought to do the same.

 

There’s something in the air; Tommy wishes Alex would look his way. Instead, he has to make do with Alex’s back, now covered with a shirt.

 

“Come,” Alex says and clears his throat, “I’m making you something to eat.”

 

“I’m fine,” Tommy replies.

 

“Well, I’ll make you a bed then.”

 

Tommy knows he shouldn’t have expected too much. And he didn’t. But still… He trails out of the room in Alex’s wake. Alex goes to the closet.

 

“We’ve got one set of spare bedsheets. Bought it just last week with Colin’s ration.”

 

He spreads the linen over the sofa, gets Tommy a spare pillow and a duvet. He’s still not meeting Tommy’s gaze. For a moment Tommy wonders if he should just up and leave – there’ll probably be a late night train back to London.

 

Whatever. He might as well stay. It won’t matter where he sleeps tonight.

 

“Thanks,” Tommy says once Alex is finished with the makeshift bed.

 

“No problem. Alistair and Colin won’t be back until seven, so… Let’s hope they keep quiet.”

 

“I’ll be awake by seven, anyway,” Tommy replies.

 

“Yeah,” Alex says slowly. “Me too, probably.”

 

They hover there for a minute, Tommy by the sofa and Alex by the door to his room.

 

“So, erm… good night,” Alex says finally.

 

“Yeah. Night.”

 

Then Alex shuts the door.

 

* * *

 

Alex was right when he said his flatmates would be back around seven. And Tommy was right in saying that he’d be awake by then. He awakes to sunlight hitting his face, slinking in from between the frail white curtains in the living room.

 

Tommy feigns sleep when Alistair and Colin return from work. They sneak upstairs, careful not to wake Tommy. He only climbs out of bed after Alex emerges from his room, hair tousled, eyes puffy.

 

He makes Tommy breakfast, uttering a word here and there. The breakfast itself is a quiet affair – it gives Tommy time to think.

 

The right thing to do would be to let Alex go on with his life – find a nice girl, start a family, settle down. It’s what they both ought to do, honestly. Tommy is beginning to realise that there’s nothing here for him. His instincts have failed him. The war turned them into different people. Maybe it was just the shellshock that drove them into each other’s arms that evening at that convalescent home, on that lawn that summer night.

 

Once they’ve finished breakfast and Tommy has helped Alex with the dishes, he says, “I think I should go.”

 

For a second, Alex seems to show a reaction. He looks up sharply, something moving in his mind, though his face is hard to read. Hard.

 

“Yeah, sure,” he says at last. “I’ll walk you to the station.”

 

They take their departure ten minutes later. It’s slightly easier for Tommy to breathe once out of the flat, but still not as easy as it could be. As easy as it was last night in Alex’s bed.

 

The road slopes downwards into town. There’s a body of water in the distance, behind rooftops. Tommy’s belly gives a lurch, as it always does at the sight of water and sand. The water is glimmering in the early morning sun.

 

Alex’s hand bumps Tommy’s, and Tommy pulls his away, as though electrocuted, shoots Alex a near-indignant look. _Don’t do it. Don’t play with me. Not now._

 

The walk to the train station feels much longer than it did the other way round, but finally they see clouds of smoke behind the buildings, hear the telltale rumble of a train in the distance. Tommy approaches the station with a heavy heart. Soon he’s going to have to say the words.

 

The station is teeming with people. Tommy knows that if he wants to say his goodbyes, he’d better do it now.

 

“You laddies for the 9.23 for London?”

 

The station guard approaches them.

 

Tommy glances behind at Alex. “Just me.”

 

“Well, I’m sorry to tell you that the train’s cancelled. Broke down, on the way here.”

 

“Broke down?”

 

“Aye, there’ll be another one in an hour.”

 

The station guard leaves, and Tommy stands there like a lost child, not knowing what to do. Then, there’s a touch on his arm.

 

“Let’s go to the beach.”

 

Tommy looks at Alex. There’s an honest expression on his face – not exactly eager, at least not on the surface – but the fact that he’s making a suggestion has to mean something.

 

Tommy tells his heart to slow down. No point getting excited.

 

“Why?” Tommy hears himself ask.

 

Alex is temporarily thrown off. He shrugs, but his stare is heavy all of a sudden. “It’s the nicest place in this town. We can wait for the train there.”

 

Tommy frowns.

 

“Come.”

 

Alex turns around. Tommy decides to follow.

 

The wind picks up; Tommy’s hair whips his face. The vast mass of water opens before them as they come over the cliff – lazy waves washing over the pebbled beach. The beach is empty at this hour. Peaceful, too. No foam, no violence.

 

There’s a ladder in the rock, snaking down the cliff to the beach.

 

“Let’s go down.”

 

Alex climbs down first, Tommy in his wake. The ladder takes them into the shadow of the cliff in a secluded bay, where the wind is gentler. It’s almost warm; under any other circumstances Tommy would shed his jacket and roll up his trouser legs.

 

Alex sits down, resting against the cliff. Tommy is hesitant to join him. Eventually he sits down in the sand, a couple of feet from Alex, only half-facing him.

 

There’s the familiar anxiety etched on Alex’s face – really, there have been only a few brief moments when Tommy has seen his face without worry; relaxed.

 

“I don’t really like beaches these days,” Tommy says, just to break the silence. “But this is nice.”

 

Alex looks at him incredulously, a very quick tug of smile in the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. Me neither. But you can’t really avoid it here, can you?”

 

The silence between them is taut. Tommy’s senses are reeling – it’s Alex and the sea again.

 

“Tommy…” Alex says, and a tremor courses through Tommy’s body. “I’m sorry I… I can’t. It’s not your fault; it’s all mine.”

 

He shakes his head, and Tommy can only watch. “I don’t know what’s got into me. I don’t know what I’m so… afraid of.”

 

“It’s all right,” Tommy says.

 

“No, it isn’t. You know… The reason why she broke up with me was ‘cause I cheated. Cheated on her left and right. Even though I loved her. I mean… what the fuck?”

 

He buries his face in his hands, stays so for so long that Tommy wonders if he’s sobbing.

 

“I can’t… do it to you, too,” he mumbles finally. “I’m no good. A rotter.”

 

Cautiously, Tommy shifts closer – puts a hand on Alex’s shoulder. It’s shaking slightly. They stay like that for a long time. When Alex looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed. He mutters, “I wish I wasn’t such a fuck-up.”

 

“You’re not,” says Tommy. “And if you are, you can always change.”

 

Alex lets out a chortle. “Easier said than done, mate.”

 

A minute or two pass, then Tommy says, “It’s not even important. I mean – we’re not going to… see each other again – are we?”

 

Alex looks straight at Tommy, with such intensity that Tommy winces.

 

“Is that what you want?”

 

“Well – no, but…” He decides to speak his mind: “You – me – ought to find us birds. Get married. Settle down. Like everybody else.”

 

“Did you spend these past seven years thinking about me, Tommy?”

 

A blaze has come to Alex’s eyes.

 

Tommy is shaken by this. “Well…”

 

“‘Cause I thought about you,” Alex says defiantly. “Almost drove me mad, didn’t it?”

 

Tommy’s cheeks feel hot.

 

“And don’t you dare tell me you didn’t think about me,” he adds, turning towards Tommy, his gaze heavy.

 

“So what if I did?” Tommy retorts.

 

Alex holds his gaze, emotions passing across his face. His gaze lands on Tommy’s mouth. This time Tommy acts first – cups Alex’s cheek, pulls him close.

 

“You’re an idiot – you know that, Alex?” Tommy mutters.

 

The other man can’t help but laugh. A relieved laugh. “I do, actually.”

 

His mouth is warm and soft and hungry against Tommy’s – exactly how Tommy wants it.

 

* * *

 

Alex’s arm rests heavy and possessive around Tommy’s waist. The warmth from his hand seeps through Tommy’s shirt, to his skin. Wind is playing in Alex’s hair – it’s the same length it was seven years ago – whipping his face and forcing him to squint. Tommy is resting his head on Alex’s lap.

 

The sun is high up on the sky now. The glimmering water falls off into the horizon in the distance. Somewhere on the cliffs over them seagulls are crying. The bay is otherwise quiet, still. Just the two of them.

 

“Wish we could stay till sunset,” Alex murmurs after a bit, scanning the mass of water. It’s possible that the glazed look in his eyes is because of the wind.

 

“Yeah,” Tommy replies. He finds that he doesn’t mind the idea of beaches and sea quite as much as he did an hour ago.

 

“Maybe one day we will,” Alex says.

 

Tommy looks up at Alex’s face. It’s serious; serious, but his green eyes are twinkling.

 

“You’ll have to keep writing to me, you know,” he goes on; runs his fingers through Tommy’s hair. “And come and see me again. Yeah?”

 

Tommy’s heart swells. An involuntary smile tugs at his mouth.

 

“What’s wrong with London?” he quips.

 

Alex laughs. “I heard it’s really dirty.”

 

“It is, a bit,” Tommy concedes.

 

“Yeah well,” Alex begins, “Maybe I’ll come down one day anyway.”

 

His hand – the one on Tommy’s waist – fumbles for Tommy’s hand, thumbs his knuckles. There’s still scar tissue there; the bruises never really healed.

 

Not everything does, but there will always something to hold onto, in life.

 

“We should get up. Get you on the train.”

 

“Yeah. I s’pose,” Tommy assents.

 

But they’ll stay there a little longer.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For the purposes of this fic, I'm assuming that Tommy and Alex were evacuated 5 June 1940.
> 
> (Also, I'm such a wuss that I teared up a bit when I wrote the bit about Gibson. I'd like to think that Tommy would remember him in some way.)


End file.
